Memoirs Of A Tortured Soul
by Rhovanion
Summary: "These are my unsent letters: my questions that go, even now, unanswered. You have my permission to read them, if you are not squeamish. But I warn you to be wary: these are my secrets. This is my life. My real life." ::YAOI - Daiken - Angst :: Chapter 5!
1. Letters Written In Blood

**Author's Note: **Yay! I was in the mood for some angstiness! This is going to be a very dark, hopefully lengthy account of a plot bunny that jumped through my window, stole my food and took up residence in my computer.  
  
**Warnings:** DAIKEN, angst, sort-of-evil stuff...  
  
**Disclaimer: **Digimon totally, entirely, wholly, completely and fully does NOT belong to me.   
  
  
=#=#=  
  
**Prelude: Letters Written In Blood**  
  
How can I be the only one in the world who knows the truth?  
  
God, I'm starting to despise the wailing of sirens. These stupid paramedics and investigators and journalists are all just a bunch of bastards! They're so…unsympathetic; pretending that they give a damn. It's not like thy knew him, or understood him, or thought of him as more than a celebrity. At least now they'll have an interesting cover story for their stupid magazines. Everybody will know what happened to their beloved media icon. Maybe they'll even discuss it over lunch in their nice and perfect little worlds, not even for one second considering that he was just like everybody else; with fears and problems, and a real life. He was. Just yesterday, he was sitting on the grass just outside, on that faded red blanket, telling me about his dreams, about his future. He had so many layers to his personality. And now?   
  
If I hadn't already blamed myself, I'd be holding the general Japanese population responsible.   
  
Can you believe that I'm crying? That I've _let _myself cry? Nobody would believe that. Ha, what a joke, they'd say. But nobody will ever know. They will never be able to find me, to question me, to sympathize with me; not in this place. In our place. I won't let them see my sorrow, won't let my parents or my friends or especially Jun see my tears. They just wouldn't understand me; or him; or us. Nobody in this whole damned world could!  
  
God, how is it that they're so ignorant? Didn't they see him crumbling? It was so bloody obvious, for anyone who even cared the slightest bit. It was dead obvious… I cared. I saw. But would anybody believe me? No. And now we're all paying the same damned price. Whoever said life wasn't fair hit the proverbial nail on the head. I'm crying again.  
  
I'm also being unreasonable, some part of me says. I know that the others cared, too; never quite as much as I did, but nevertheless. My feelings of loneliness make it difficult to remember that, to believe it. I'm not going to waste my energy on it, either. I've got my hands full feeling angry at myself; and pitying him.  
  
If only I had broken the silence. If only I'd asked him about the scars and the fatigue, about the dulling of his eyes, could I have perhaps redirected fate? I'll never know, and it's going to gnaw at me for the rest of my pathetic life. If I had only one wish, I'd chose for it to be me in that black bodybag, being wheeled away like some extra on a third-rate medical drama. But life doesn't work like that and I have to face facts: I'm a murderer.  
  
Alright, maybe that's exaggerating. But I could have prevented his death, maybe. I could have stopped him slipping so far back down into darkness, if anyone had the ability to. If there was one person who deserved a second chance, who'd worked so hard and so long to set things right, it was him. God, it was him, and now it's too late! I shouldhave given him that opportunity. Wasn't it he that said I'd given him a new lease on life? He was always saying those kinds of things. Underneath that cool exterior, he was as soft as warm marshmallows. Not anymore. I know that this is all somehow my fault.  
  
He hadn't hidden it particularly well: it was all reflected in his eyes. Available for the whole world, for me, to see. For us to become aware of what was going on… God, those beautiful eyes will never sparkle again! It's almost too unbearable to imagine. The world has lost such a kind, gentle, witty person. And I'm the only one who cares and, indeed, even knows the truth. It's a hard thing to live with.  
  
There was a sudden scrabbling nearby, and the trap door swung open for the fleetest of seconds. It surprised me, feeling alone and isolated as I was. But it was not the police: a small shape stumbled over to me, lifting its eyes in silent plea. Eyes that were also filled with tears, like mine. Eyes that were piercingly indigo, like his. The creature sniffled, and no words were necessary between us. At least I wasn't the only one who had cared that much, I realized… Not the only one who still did care.  
  
I lifted Wormmon into my lap, and we cried our silent tribute to Ichijouji Ken.  
  
=#=#=  
  
After everybody had left, after his parents had vanished, snivelling, after the entire world had departed to spread the latest rumour, I scrambled out of the hidden attic and landed on his dishevelled bed. The room was in a shambles. It seemed so wrong, so unfitting to the normally neat Ken.  
  
_ It's not like he's ever going to come here again._ It was a bitter thought, but it was one that I had to face. Ken was dead. And, now, I was dying a slow, guilt-ridden internal death, too.   
  
My eyes traced the chaotically smudged black paint on the walls, shifted to the clumps of shredded paper, finally to the starkly visible pool of crimson blood. It looked violent, repulsive. Couldn't somebody have at least washed that? To hell with evidence! This was Ken's room, and it had no right to be so disorganized.   
  
I placed Wormmon onto a pillow and quickly tracked down a bucket for water and some various detergents. Dumping the whole lot onto the stain, I began to scrub at it with unrestrained fury. My adrenaline was rushing at a frigtening pace, but I felt strangely relieved of tension as I continued my solitary task. In the midst of another violent swipe, my hand snagged a fragment of carpet and, strangely, it lifted away from the floor at my tug. Below it was a loose floorboard, and in the cavity underneath, a box. I was amazed and slightly frightened to find my name on the lid.  
  
Inside was a wad of papers and envelopes. On top of it all lay a note:  
  
_Dear Daisuke,   
  
__I knew that you would find this__: My final gift, of sorts, to you. These are my unsent letters, my questions that go, even now, unanswered. I adamantly hope that they might bring you clarification. You have my permission to read them, if you are not squeamish. But I warn you to be wary. These are my secrets, the record of my plunge into darkness. This is my life. My real life._  
  
That was all.   
  
=#=#=  
  
Fun with cliffhangers! ^_~  



	2. Crimson Script

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the long-overdue-ness of this chapter. Hope it's up to scratch! No warnings, 'cause I'll just give the whole plot away, but be sensible: If you're _really _sensitive about emotional and psychological abuse, GO AWAY AND DON'T READ THIS! [_realizes that she has just scared most of the audience away_] Uh...  
  
I'm going with the timeline of Ken and Daisuke's being 15 in 2002. Bear in mind that Ken's still young and naive when he writes most of this...  
  
This chapter seemed to suck big-time when I proofread it, so it's gone through the 'writer's blender'. If you've already read it, I haven't changed the plot or general storyline, but there's just a lot more filling out of explanations and the like.  
  
Special thanx to **Eriya, Your New Best Friend **(cool name ^_^)and **Shizuku **for putting me on their favourites lists!  
  
**Disclaimer:** Digimon and all the characters therein are the creative property of Toei and their associates. This plot isn't. Nah nah! ^_~  
  
  
=#=#=#=  
  
  
It was days, actually, before Daisuke had a chance to more than glance at the notes and letters in the box. Between his private grieving and the lavish funeral, he was afforded little time to do any of the many pressing things on his schedule. The most trying moment had been the breaking of the news to the rest of the Digidestined: Daisuke had not even come to terms with the stark reality himself at that point. The reactions had varied greatly, from Miyako's tearful outburst to Takeru's solemn, expressionless disbelief. Ever the thoughtful one, Hikari had flung herself at Daisuke; mumbling a string of regrets, comforts and apologies as he allowed himself to cry in her embrace. Even Jun, horrifyingly unsympathetic as she usually was, had at the very least kept out of his way.  
  
Daisuke hadn't gone to school for the remainder of the week. Mooching in bed whenever he wasn't eating or absolving himself, he could barely stomach the thought of entering the classroom to take his place alongside a seat that no longer had an occupant. Or to walk onto the soccer pitch, wanting to pass the ball to the ever-reliable central striker, only to have it roll away unheeded, unstopped. Or to stroll by the corner cafe without stopping to buy his favourite ice-cream. He remained in the hazy miasma of self-pitying regret; the maelstrom of tears and what-if's and half-blurry memories, for the better part of four days.  
  
And then, that night, and only to shelter himself from the ceaseless nightmares, he decided to begin his reading.  
  
Gory images of dark violence had dominated his dreaming mind, trying to fill the holes in his knowledge of Ken's death. Nobody knew, in any degree of certainty, what had happened that fateful night. Suicide, the chief inspector had told him; but for Daisuke that wasn't enough, wasn't the full truth. They didn't know Ken. How could he have told them that the brunette would never have taken his own life? Daisuke knew, without a shadow of doubt, that it wasn't 'just' suicide.  
  
But, he had asked himself often over his four day hiatus, what _had_ it been? Common murder? Or something darker? That was what he had promised himself, and Ken, to find out. That was why he was prepared to read the letter.   
  
Daisuke shifted to reach under his bed. Extracting the box, he was relieved to find that Jun hadn't discovered it. He stared at it in a moment of uncertainty, feeling almost as though his name, emblazoned on the cover, was staring back, challenging and chiding him at the same time. The lid slid open soundlessly with his decision to continue the quest of unearthing the truth. The mass of partially folded, partially crumpled papers greeted him ominously.   
  
He read over Ken's note. The warning seemed much more potent now, in the core of a nightmarish darkness lit only by a feeble bedside lamp. It only managed to compound his irresolution. To Daisuke, it seemed an almost blatant disregard for privacy to read the private memoirs. But then he remembered the unlikely - no, unbelievable - stroke of chance: the discovery of the box, almost as though fate had directed him to this moment. What had brought him to find it? The very thought sent an icy shiver down his spine. Even to the boy who disbelieved superstition and fanciful ghost stories, there seemed to be some higher power at work.  
  
Quickly, Daisuke shook the fanciful reverie from his mind. Immediate justification for his lapse in the logical evaluation of the situation sprang to his mind: he was just sleep deprived, and the horrid nightmares were just compounding his unsettlement, enlarging his superstitious fears. There was no 'fate' guiding his actions: what a load of nonsense!   
  
He hastily pulled out the first envelope from the left in some personal proof of his bravery. It occurred to him, for the shortest of moments, that the middle of a lurid night was not the best time to be reading something that even Ken considered distressing. But his foolhardy nature won over any doubts, and he slowly unfolded the first letter. The script was neat, though smeared in places, as though the hand that had written it had accidentally slipped and smudged the ink. Daisuke noted the date with interest: Six years past, and Ken must only have been about nine at the time. The reflection brought a lump to his throat.  
  
Pushing aside all other thoughts, he began reading.   
  
_**  
May 12, 1996  
**Dear Me,**  
**  
I shouldn't be up at all right now: it's 2 in the morning but my nightmares are keeping me awake again.  
  
I heard from somebody that the best way to express your feelings and problems was to write them all down in a diary. That sounded a little strange to me, but I decided to try it. I'm writing this letter to nobody. Or actually, to myself (big difference). That way, I won't have to, or really be able to, lie about what I'm really thinking. I hate lying, but sometimes it's the only way that I can protect myself from everybody who doesn't understand me. Or just everybody, period.  
  
I've always wondered about feelings and emotions. Sometimes, they are your worst enemies because if somebody knows what you're sensing, it makes you vulnerable to attack. It's hard to hide the way I feel about some people because it always reflects in my eyes, how unfair is that? Especially for me, who's so sensitive in the first place. Just another thing to hate, I guess.   
  
But when you're weak, you're forced to become strong to survive. And determined. I think I've come up with a method that protects me pretty well: I don't let myself feel anything in the first place. That way, it's impossible to get wounded. I think I'm becoming really good at being blank: the last time I tried it, when Mamma was yelling about something again, I hardly even wanted to cry. I was just a bit angry, but that's okay. It makes me kind of unattached to myself, but it's better than being aware of my inner pain the whole time. I think the best description for me is 'cynical'.  
  
I always have to remind myself that I'm luckier than some. Not having to be aware of most emotions makes life a whole lot simpler. For example, how can it be that you can love somebody and hate them all at the same time? It makes no sense to me that you can have two feelings that are both so strong and so different in your heart at the same time without you getting sick. Is that why people have heart attacks, because they can't sort out their emotions?  
  
I've tried hard but love and hate just seem to stick to me. I'll have to make more effort to stop allowing these two into myself. But it's really difficult when those are the ones that I was brought up on: being stupid enough to let myself love some people, then getting betrayed, then hating them; then starting the whole vicious circle again. How idiotic am I? I should have learnt better by now. Kill love and then there can't be any hate. Simple as that. What good is love anyway when it doesn't even last long enough to really _be _there? There's always such a fuss about it, but to me it's just a word that means anger and hate are just around the corner. Maybe, some day, somebody will be able to explain all this to me. For now, I guess I'm stuck in a whole lot of love/hate relationships. More hate than love, of course.  
  
Take my brother, for instance: Osamu, the wonder child of the Ichijouji family. I love him because he is my brother. Logical. I can't not love him, that's the rule for every member in a family, 'written in stone' or something like that. But the feeling is so hollow inside me that it's virtually just a corrupted reflection of my jealousy and anger and hate. It's like my soul isn't comfortable in my body; It doesn't seem right. Somehow, I know that I shouldn't be feeling so much hate, that it's not my fault or anything. But I do. I can't help it. Is it a bad thing to hate your brother?  
  
No. Not when I have so many reasons to do it.  
  
Whenever Osamu is around it's like I become invisible, or like I suddenly don't belong to the family. He's older, smarter, more athletic, and has more friends that I can even remember. I guess my parents don't have anything to remember me by: what good am I whan you have the perfect child already? I feel like a mistake. Momma is always so proud when Osamu gets another A for his schoolwork, like she hadn't expected it or something; or when he gets chosen to play on the first soccer team. As far as she is concerned, Osamu couldn't put a foot wrong.   
  
If only my parents knew how wrong they were. Not that they would believe that their darling little child could ever do anything less than angelically perfect. I wish I could pull off his shiny halo and show everyone the devil horns hiding underneath. I have one reason to despise my brother that nobody knows about, that no one is allowed to ever hear about. I'm even scared to write it down in case sombody reads this. So if anyone _is_ reading this, don't tell anyone. Especially not my parents, please?   
  
It always happens after the lights go out, and the silent shadow of Osamu slips into my room. Sometimes I try to block the memories of what happens after that, but it doesn't always work. It didn't work yesterday. I can still feel my brother's hands all over my body, touching me in ways and places that I know they shouldn't. I can taste the musky smell of his body in my mouth, in every corner of my senses. Even now, I can still hear his warnings and threats echoing in the silent room, daring me to go against them. He said that he would kill me if I ever told anybody. Somehow, I know that he would do it. I tried being blank, but it was much too difficult and I cried again. It seemed like a test for my, and I knew I had failed. I'll try harder next time.  
  
I hate myself for being so weak. I'm afraid of him, afraid of the dark that brings painful and horrible memories. But that fear also somehow fuels my hate; that's not unreasonable, is it? My secret hate, that just keeps expanding each day, is probably the only thing that keeps me alive. It's like the determination to survive even though everything is against me. The hate's almost grown into a whole, separate being; ready to burst out of my body when it gets a chance. It's my tool. And I'm going to use it.  
  
Now I really have to go to sleep. There is something that I'm more afraid of than my brother, and I think that it's myself. Or my negative feelings, at least. They also come at night, like a dark cloud hovering in my room. That's not a joke, I'm serious. It's like a ghost or an alien and I can actually see it. I don't really know what it is or why it's here, but I can feel it as plainly as cold water. It's like all of my hate and anger and jealousy and fear mixed into one bunch of black mist. It's growing denser by the moment, and I'd rather be asleep when it's fully formed. I don't know what it does while I'm unconscious, and I'd rather not find out. But I know I can ask it a favour.  
  
I want Osamu to be gone. I want to stop having to hate myself. He is the reason for it.   
  
Osamu must die.  
  
How selfish of me._  
  
  
Daisuke sat still, his rasping breath his only companion in the darkness. It took him a while to assuage his racing heart enough to fully believe the stark meaning of the letter. His entire being was shocked, unable to associate the foreign-seeming text to the familiarity of Ken.Was it really true that Osamu, someone of whom Ken had often spoken so highly, had been so cruel? Daisuke feared the answer to the question, dreading that he had only scratched the surface of the iceberg of truth.   
  
But even more terrifying was Ken's emotional exposé, the way he had subjugated virtually any remaining traces of sentiment at that tender age. What other horrors had taken place to cause such a divorce of his thoughts and feelings? Daisuke was immediately teary-eyed again, wishing feebly that he could have travelled back in time to show his gentle Ken the true meaning of love: without betrayal, without hurt, no strings attached.   
  
If only he had been made privy to these secrets earlier, could he have forestalled their tragic outcome? Would he have had the guts, or the stomach, to face the facts? He drummed his fist uselessly into the mattress, feeling wholly helpless and insignificant. Why, only now, had he finally been given the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and not a single opportunity to rectify his ignorance? It was as though a window had been flung open on Ken's most intimate thoughts, and the view outside was grim and colourless.   
  
But it also offered Daisuke so many missing insights into his love's fragmented personality, insights that he had searched so vainly for. Was this the answer to more than just the question of Ken's death? The key to his life as well, perhaps? Daisuke didn't know whether to be grateful or horrified at the letters' mixed blessing.  
  
But he couldn't judge the entire situation by basing all of his facts on a single letter either. Daisuke needed a more rounded understanding of the matter, and he had the source in his hands. With trepidation, he removed the second scrap of paper. Something slipped out with it, but he turned his primary attention to the note. He steeled himself, breathed in deeply, and focused his eyes on the script.   
  
  
_**May 15th, 1996,**  
  
Osamu,  
I am in shock. It all happened so quickly, finding out the news. Why didn't you see that car coming? Did someone push you onto the road? Or some_ thing_, perhaps? I am the only one who knows the answer to that question.   
  
It's an odd, although exhilarating, feeling to have power over somebody else's life. You should know all about that. Too bad that you were only in my shoes for a split second; they said you were gone instantly, but I'd have preferred for you to have suffered just that little bit. Imagine if the last thing that you had seen was my triumphant expression! You would have rolled in your grave for ages. But then, beggars can't be choosers. I should be feeling happy, but I don't.   
  
I think I've forgotten how.  
  
I thought my anger and hate would die with you, but it's just as strong as ever. Seems like you get the last laugh after all, turning my poor life into a misery. It's going to take years to erase all of your work. Was that you only goal, dear brother?   
  
Everything is just so… empty. I hope you're happy._  
  
  
Daisuke could barely contain his revulsion at the words. Comparing it mentally to the first letter, written only three days prior, the styles clashed so violently that he almost suspected that the second had not been written by Ken at all. Superstistion flaring again, he dared contemplate the possibility of something having taken over Ken, writing through his body. After all, nobody could be that emotionless. Could they?   
  
He tried to dismiss the theory as the product of a rife imagination. He failed miserably.  
  
Daisuke tried to logically organize his thoughts, but every minute lapse threw him back into the apathy and coldness of the written word. Ken must have blocked out any pangs of emotion that had surfaced at the death of his brother. Or, were there simply no pangs in the first place? The cinnamon-haired boy felt like a detective who had no evidence, not even a shred of a clue and no corpse, faced with a bizarre and entirely unlikely murder. He shuddered, quickly placing the paper aside, hardly daring to give it even a cursory glance.  
  
He brought the second, wayward slip of paper into the light of his bedside lamp. Instantly, a wave of nausea rolled over him, more potent than any he had previously experienced, and he tried to will himself to drop it. But he couldn't. His stunned disgust had numbed his very senses and he could only stare in horror at the photo of a smiling Osamu.  
  
A photo drenched in blood.   
  
=#=#=#=  
  
As I'm sure you know, reviews are the greatest motivational tools... ^_^   
  



	3. Step Forward, Step Back

**Author's Note:** This is sort of a semi-chapter. I was going to include much more, but this alone seemed enough for an episode. Some plot progression (YAY!) and no Ken-Angst (BOO!) but expect the next part really soon, as I've written some stuff that was going to be in this but isn't but will be in the next chapter. Confused enough yet? Good. I'm generally happy with this (especially the dig I got in at the name 'Davis' *shudders*), so don't expect many changes here...  
  
**Warnings:** DAIKEN, angst, sort-of-evil stuff, a plot...  
  
**Disclaimer:** Jeez Louise!!! It isn't mine!  
  
  
Minutes, perhaps even hours passed. In the still night darkness, Motomiya Daisuke sat huddled on his dishevelled bed; his comforter, bundled up and clutched firmly against his chest, his only companion as he shivered in a cold sweat. He dared not move, wishing for daylight.  
  
After throwing the photo down and reflexively shoving the letter-filled box off of the bed, he had assumed that position. Initially, it was to stave off the icy night breeze that had entered through his partly opened window. Then, the rationale had shifted to something far more sinister. As though on the edge of his sight, Daisuke imagined having seen something flit past his window. His cursory glance revealed nothing. He would have passed it off as a trick of the lighting were it not for the inexplicable icy shiver that had run down his spine.   
  
Sitting up, he had pressed himself against the wall to survey the room: the emptiness only sought to further his dread. Without prompting, ominous notions of evil darkness permeated his thoughts and were brought to the fore of his mind. Among them were the visuals of a bloody carpet and paint-smeared walls. Daisuke sat for what seemed like an age in the mire of his gruesome thoughts, trying to ignore them and thus only enforcing their presence. It must have been one of the very early hours of the morning by then.   
  
_The Witching Hour_, he thought portentously.  
  
Daisuke recalled the campfire ghost stories of the Witching Hour, a time during the dead of night when all manner of dark creatures left their holes to prey on the unwary. They had frightened him as a young boy, as had such ridiculous things as werewolves and vampires, but with age had come a disregard for petty childhood fallacy. At that moment, though, it was a different story.   
  
He had never been a coward, priding himself on his courage and stubbornness. He even had the Crest to show for it. But somehow, the darkness was palpably threatening and had sent all thoughts of bravery from his mind. Daisuke felt that he, one boy, stood alone against a city of unknown whispers and shadows: one boy who felt all the malevolence of the world focused upon his being. Every clatter, every weight-shifting creak that he heard, sent another charge of fear down his spine. When the light from a street lamp that was upset by a gust of wind swayed nonchalantly to and fro across his room, Daisuke edged still further into his duvet-covered shelter.  
  
He could hardly stand the feeling of being so impotent against a world of fear. It grated against his battle-ready, proactive nature and sent a garbled, if not entirely incomprehensible, message to his fight versus flight instinct. Reading those letters must have triggered something off within him, he concluded. But to what extent? He dared a glance at the letters and pictures on the floor, scattered in his earlier wild frenzy to distance himself from them. On top of the pile lay _that _photo. He tried not to think about it. He failed miserably.  
  
A sudden thump just beyond his door sent his heart into a frenzy of wild acrobatics. His quiet yelp went unheard underneath the mass of material in which he had wrapped himself, as though it would provide an adequate deterrent for any nightly attackers. The exterior noises grew louder, encouraging his imagination to greater feats of conjured-up horrid images. Closer now. Almost at the door…   
  
He barely restrained a scream as the door handle shifted. Blinking away sweat and tears, he tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible in his shadowed corner as the portal swung open and whatever was nearing him entered. His eyes tried to shut impulsively but he forced them open. He'd get a good look at his enemy, at least, as it stood silhouetted in the doorway. He focused on it.  
  
The sight of a tousled Jun rubbing sleep from her eyes seemed to dispel the dark illusions instantly. In that moment, it was almost as though a shadowy blanket had slipped from the room. The air became lighter and less stale, the corners which had previously been hidden in shadow illuminated to reveal nothing evil. Even the moaning of floorboards, now that it had a source, melded into the homely night sounds. Daisuke let his duvet drop.  
  
"Huh?" was all that he managed.   
  
Jun looked less than pleased, but Daisuke had never been more glad to see his sister: angered or not. She crossed her arms. "What's all the ruckus about, Davis?" she asked, using a nickname that she knew annoyed him. "Some of us are actually trying to get some beauty sleep here!"   
  
"N-nothing," he answered. Daisuke hadn't been aware of any loud noises, only the ones amplified by his fear, but he made an effort to conceal his confusion. Jun looked slightly surprised at that curt answer, probably as she had expected some verbal retaliation. In the silence that followed, she snorted. "What, little Davis had a nightmare? Scared of the dark, are we?"  
  
But her words did not elicit a response. In a sudden flurry of activity, Daisuke scrambled from beneath the tangled sheets and managed to drop them innocently over Ken's spilled letters, forcing a naïve grin. It wouldn't do to have Jun discover them. The girl in question, infuriated by her unsuccessful taunting, spun around to leave with an annoyed sigh. But before she exited the room entirely, she couldn't resist one last comment.   
  
"Next time you want to try out your pathetic evil laugh, go do it somewhere where nobody can hear you!"  
  
She shut the door, careful not to wake their parents. Daisuke's momentary relief at her departure was quickly dulled by the return of a fresh wave of dread. The half-imagined darkness swirled in again.   
  
"Evil laugh?" he asked the night. "What evil laugh?"  
  
=#=#=#=  
  
For the rest of the night, Daisuke caught little sleep, plagued by his frightening thoughts. It was with a sense of weary elation that he greeted the first rays of dawn sunlight as morning broke fully over Odaiba. Now that he was encompassed by a revealing and illuminating atmosphere, the previous night's worries seemed almost childish to him. Forgetting his trauma, if not his tiredness, he plodded into the adjacent bathroom and performed his morning routine. He felt much more awake after that and made his way to the kitchen, and breakfast. His mother turned from the bacon that she was frying and regarded him first with nonchalance, then with concern.  
  
"Daisuke, what's wrong with you?" she enquired. "You look like you've hardly had any rest at all!"  
  
Before he could explain, Jun piped up around a mouthful of her no-fat, no-sugar oatmeal that, to Daisuke, tasted like flavourless glue. "Davis had a nightmare," she proclaimed. He shot her his most venomous little-brother glare and slid into a chair.  
  
"Really?" Mrs Motomiya queried. "You poor dear. Was it very awful?"  
  
Daisuke wondered at the inanity of his mother's question. He hated when she fussed over him like a brooding hen, so he mentioned the one subject that he knew she wouldn't willingly pursue.  
  
"Oh, it was just stuff about Ken."  
  
"I see." As he predicted, she ceased her questioning and focused her full attention on her cooking. Daisuke wondered, over a glass of orange juice, why the subject had such a taboo attached to it. His parents had been fully aware of his sexual preference earlier, and had never hesitated to discuss the topic. Perhaps it was due to the gruesomeness of Ken's death, or to the fact that he had taken it so hard. He lost himself in that train of thought until he sensed an expectant silence about him. Snapping his attention back to the present, he glanced around.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
His mother looked oddly coy. "I was just wondering, Dai, if I should pack a lunch for you. For school, I mean. You should really go back soon, you know. It isn't healthy to dwell on the past."  
  
It hadn't occurred to Daisuke until that moment that he would actually have to return to school someday. With his mind otherwise preoccupied, it had quite honestly been forgotten. Facing the school would mean leaving home and reclaiming his life, seeing his friends and fixating on things other than the death of his closest acquaintance. But it would also mean being confronted, at every turn, with the unpleasant truth that Ken would never be returning. He didn't know if he was prepared to face that quite yet.  
  
On the other hand, if he continued to conceal himself in the coddled safety of home, he might never quite believe it: it was far easier to imagine that the black haired boy was customarily getting on with his everyday life when he was removed from it. Actually being in class without his brilliant companion would hit him, hard, Daisuke knew. But what choice did he have? It was now or later, and the longer he procrastinated the bigger the shock would be. He sucked in some air, steeled himself. This would be one of his most important decisions.   
  
"Sure, pack me a lunch. I'll go."  
  



	4. Sinking In

  
  
**Author's Note: **Being very prolific lately, I actually finished beta'ing this chapter. And *shock*horror* the next one is well on its way to being born. Again my sincere apologies for making all of you wait so long. And just for that, I'm leaving you with another nice cliffie!  
  
The Ken-angst is fading into oblivion and the Daisuke-centric fiction reigns supreme. Why do my stories always do this to me? But at least the evil laughter spawned some intrigue… ^_^  
**  
Random Babbling**: I absolutely entirely wholly hate the way Yolei pronounces 'Ichijouji' in the English dub. And Cody is evil. Any takers for my 'I-believe-in-the-evilness-of-Hida-Iori' Club?  
  
  
  
  
_Just walk, Dai. Just keep going._  
  
Motomiya Daisuke paced quickly along the quiet suburban streets. Instinct allowed him to take the ingrained turns and shortcuts that would bring him to school.   
  
_Keep going. You'll make it; just don't stop._  
  
His head hung low, eyes fixated firmly on the paving stones that flew past his vision as he repeated his silent mantra. He didn't even dare glance up. He couldn't face what he knew he would see. He didn't want any memories to plague him.  
  
Try as he might, though, he could not prevent himself from contemplating the various landmarks that he passed: it happened reflexively. His mind's eye saw that chipped park bench off to the right, covered in layers of graffiti, and even without raising his line of vision, he knew that it was just a few meters away from him. Daisuke had contributed to the mass of sketches and pictures once long ago, a simple 'D + K' that must now have been lost under a collage of others. When he had shown it to Ken, the charcoal haired boy had crossed his arms at that blatant vandalism; yet Daisuke's later inspection of the scribble had revealed that the plus sign had been modified into a crude heart. Daisuke rushed past and tried to swallow down the hitch in his throat, his passage disturbing some litter, and he bit his lip to prevent its quivering.   
  
A few strides on, and he was at the street corner where somebody had once barreled past him and spilled some sort of sickly sweet beverage all over his clothing. The image of a hysterical Ken flooded back to him. The boy had laughed so much at Daisuke's comment about how hard it would be to wash the fizzy drink out of his hair; it wasn't until the bedraggled Daisuke had purposely shaken himself all over him that Ken's mirth subsided. And the washing out hadn't been difficult in the least, not with somebody else doing the brunt of the work…  
  
_Don't think about it!_  
  
He walked awhile with a carefully blank mind, forcing himself to keep occupied with mundane things like chores, appointments and multiplication tables. And for a while, it worked. But the plan was not infallible, and his mind began its inevitable journey back to heedless reminiscences.   
  
A take-out restaurant's signature odours wafted in his direction; it was the one that sold, in his eclectic opinion, the best ramen noodles on that side of Japan. Daisuke had spent many an impromptu date with his raven-haired sweetheart there; they had been all but regular customers, always ordering the same and always arguing about each others' lack of taste. Daisuke could virtually see Ken sweeping his hair back, the argument's victory having gone the genius's way. He shoved the memory aside stubbornly, essaying to ignore the temptingly implicating smells.  
  
_One foot in front of the other… Just keep moving forward._   
  
He was in the park now, under the cool stands of ancient trees that formed a dense forest of flora, one that was ideal for losing oneself in. He knew the clearing, just a hundred steps into the dense foliage, which seemed to be made as the perfect picnic spot, complete with gurgling stream and ample comfortable seating. He had spent a lot of time there. With Ken. With the other Digidestined as well, but predominantly with Ken.  
  
_NO! No more pathetic thoughts! Ken's not here and you have to face it, Daisuke! _  
  
The sharpness of the inner voice surprised him, but Daisuke took strength from it as he continued his journey, refusing to think about all of the connotations of the ice-cream vendor, the traffic light, the turnoff to Ken's apartment…  
  
It was a veritable miracle that Daisuke made it to school without a severe degree of emotional breakdown. It seemed as though the entire city was conspiring against his oath of regaining his life. Every turn, every step had brought some reminder of the one person that Daisuke would never see or touch again. His willpower had been tested to the point of breaking and he had almost surrendered to the easy option of simply turning around and returning to the secluded safety of his bedroom. Almost.  
  
Now, the apathetic gates of Odaiba High School greeted his rigid form. It was just after the start of classes for the day, so the grounds were devoid of people, but he saw the occasional shape flitting along within the building. That brought back the memory of the previous night's ordeal, as well as his fatigue. But Daisuke hadn't been dubbed the bullheaded one for nothing. He was going to go through with this one day at school. Even if it killed him. And, quite frankly, it seemed about to do just that.  
  
The next step that he made must have been one of the hardest in his life: a stride towards change, acceptance and, physically, towards the dreaded school. The next came more easily, as did the one after, and soon Daisuke was making steady progress. Lessons awaited. He belatedly realized that it was Wednesday and that his first class was on the far end of the main school building.  
  
The corridors were eerily quiet: the only noise was the muffled clamour of lessons going on behind closed doors. He detoured past the stand of lockers to fetch the appropriate books, purposefully delaying his arrival to class. Everything looked the same. Same old dented lockers, same badly-swept floor, same conspicuously scribbled-on walls. Why, then, did the atmosphere feel so different?  
  
Daisuke sidled up to his own locker, entered the combination and gingerly pulled open the door. His caution was well rewarded: the stench of something in an advanced state of decomposition assaulted his senses, as did the violent upheaval of all of the things that had been crammed inside weeks ago. The mess spilt out onto the floor. He was able to identify the source of the foul odour, a sandwich that he had planned on keeping for the day after, a day that had passed two weeks ago. Daisuke scooped up the mould and quickly disposed it, snatched out his books and stuffed the remainder of the items back into the inadequate space. The door was deftly closed and locked.  
  
Unable to legitimately stall any longer, Daisuke started off towards his classroom. But he was stopped yet again. He glanced hesitantly to his right. There it was: Ken's locker.   
  
He turned to face it, a showdown of wits that would not have been out of place in a classic Western film. Daisuke, daring the locker to rebel his less than fragile hopes; the locker itself almost daring him to walk past. He stared it down, then realized how ridiculous the entire situation truly was and frowned.   
  
_Couldn't have picked a better time to become paranoid._  
  
But for some reason, he could not step away from the locker. It would be so easy just to reach up and open it… Unable to withhold the impulse, he deftly entered the lock's combination and, glancing furtively around, eased the door open. The disappointment at seeing it empty hit him like an oncoming train. He couldn't even have that comfort, that little fragment of his lover to hang onto.  
  
"What were you expecting?" he asked aloud. Frustrated, he slammed the door shut, no longer caring about the racket that he was making. He was in the process of turning away when a glimpse of white caught his eye. A piece of paper lay nearby on the floor, one that Daisuke could have sworn hadn't been there a moment earlier. He surmised that it must have been loosened from its place by his violent closure of the door. Without realizing it, he assumed that it was for him. Another staring match would have ensued had Daisuke not heard, at that precise moment, somebody striding down the corridor. He scooped up the paper, deposited it into his satchel and innocently resumed his march to class.  
  
And then, there it was: the moment of truth, the beginning of the rest of his life. The classroom door. Just beyond it lay a future of honest realization and the long, weary trudge out of his emotional mire. Daisuke stood still for a moment, unsure if that was what he really wanted. He weighed the options up: Stay embittered and hopelessly clingy for the rest of his life, or face the fact that the world was short on beautiful, talented, generous person. He knew what he had to do, and he knew what he wanted to do. The conflict within him grew, capturing Daisuke in a blank-minded, heart-wrenching stasis.   
  
The door hung like an ominous shadow, towering above him, discouraging his entry. Everything in him screamed to turn back and hold onto his oblivious beliefs, everything except one miniscule tug of resistance. The part of him that yearned reprieve from the tortures he inflicted on his mind and soul with every denial of Ken's death. The part of him that frowned when he grinned fakely, that cried when he put on the pretense of laughter, that danced when he was otherwise depressed. It was something deeper than subconscious: it was his truth, pure and simple. And now it made itself known, in hideous Technicolour, and then Daisuke knew what he would do, come pain or fear or sleet or snow.  
  
He opened the door.  
  
It was not unlike the breaking of a wave on jagged weather-beaten rocks: Daisuke, swept about in the currents of his inner mayhem, hit head-first into the solid wall of reality.   
  
Ken's chair was empty.  
  
His classmates stared, the teacher spun and dropped her chalk, but Daisuke did not notice any of it. His eyes – his entire being – was fixated on the wooden chair next to the window. He began to shiver: a muscle deep tension onset by his shock. He was distantly aware of a tingling on his cheeks, heedless tears drawing a salty trail down his face, and he felt his throat catch on an invisible snag. Arms went limp, knees became shaky and unstable. A thousand images vied for pole position in his mind.  
  
"He's really gone."  
  
Daisuke hadn't meant to speak aloud. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath and closed his eyes, his one final chance. Maybe, if he opened them again, he would waken from his nightmarish life and find that…  
  
He opened his eyes.  
  
And Ken wasn't there.  
  
It was in that precise second that the inevitable reality was made fully open and available to him, in all its harsh and magnificent glory. For now, for tomorrow, forever: his black-haired lover was no more.   
  
Daisuke was halfway down the corridor before he even realized that he was running.   
  
=#=#=#=  
  
The trees whispered comfortingly as a breeze disturbed their mostly naked branches. The sun was shining brightly, yet did little to dispel the icy bite of the air, resigning itself instead to playing with shadows and caressing exposed surfaces with a mother's tenderness. Here and there, green buds heralded the arrival of Spring: the coming of warmth and joy and life. But one boy did not heed their optimistic message. Daisuke felt that he had just died a thousand lingering deaths.  
  
He marveled at his own oblivion – no, stupidity. Hadn't he realized the truth? How had he managed to live out his meager existence for two weeks without fully, or indeed even partially, recognized the connotations of Ken's death? This baffled him, even as he sat in a secluded and forgotten corner of the school's sports field. He had run out of fear. Fight or flight, indeed! Daisuke had let his feet guide him to the spot, his mind preoccupied with the sudden realization that the past two weeks of his life had been a blatant lie.  
  
He still hadn't accepted the fact by the time he heard the school bell ring, signifying the end of the lesson, half an hour later. There were no more tears: he had cried himself dry earlier. Now, he felt like the empty shell of his former self, devoid of both emotion and energy. He simply sat and stared.  
  
Then, somewhere from the depths of his mind, Daisuke pulled out a memory of something that had happened earlier; hours ago, although to him it felt like years. The note.  
  
A momentary shuffling in his bag revealed the crumpled sheet of paper. The texture felt rough, Daisuke noted, something that he hadn't taken into account before. He unfolded the sheet and glanced it over.   
  
Daisuke narrowed his eyes and scanned over it again. Something was wrong. The letters looked like nothing he had ever seen before, more than just a foreign language. If he hadn't known better, he would have attributed them to one of Ken's countless equations or computer programs or something similarly banal. But these black symbols looked…  
  
_Wait._  
  
Daisuke stared at them again, the now familiar icy grip of fear taking him. During the time it had taken him to blink, the letters had moved.  
  
=#=#=#=  
  
Don't you just adore cliffhangers? More Ken angst in the next chapter, guaranteed! ^_^  
  
  
  



	5. Just Left of Center

Author's Note: Are pigs flying? Is there a man on the moon? No, another miracle has occurred: I've updated this fic! ^_^ No Ken-angst, damnit! But some spooky Daisuke stuff. Fun! And another cliffie.  
  
I love you too.  
  
+++  
  
Daisuke didn't like puzzles. He especially detested them when Ken wasn't around to help him out.  
  
The boy was back at home, sitting backwards in his chair, head lying on his folded arms. That day had been an utter fiasco. After hiding behind the bleachers for a further hour, he had realized the futility of trying to summon up enough courage to continue with the school day. When everybody had been inside, taking lessons, he had slipped out of the gate and run home, spurred by the nagging fear that something was just behind him, nipping at his ankles. And then, at home, his mother had given him her most sympathetic glance as he barrelled past her to sulk in his room. He didn't want comfort.  
  
After divesting himself of his uniform and school bag, and realizing his bone-deep fatigue, Daisuke had flung himself onto his disheveled bed. But no sleep would come. His mind reeled with shock and, when it wasn't that, it was preoccupied with the mysterious note and its even more baffling characters. After trying unsuccessfully to coax himself to sleep for the better part of half an hour, the cinnamon haired boy had risen and paced across his room. That had just unsettled him further, so on a general consensus he sat down and glared out of his window.  
  
"Stupid perfect day," he muttered sourly, wishing that the world would partake of even a fraction of his misery.  
  
He sat and stared and mulled over everything that had occurred to him on that day. The overall picture was less than encouraging, and at the rate it was going, things would only be getting worse. Soon, Jun would be home from school, and he did not have the energy to contend with that. Supper would be an abysmal affair, as had become usual over the past few weeks. And then, the sun would set and tempt from hiding all manner of shadowy demons. Daisuke fleetingly wondered if he wasn't too old to be afraid of darkness, but compromised with the excuse that he had every right to be, what with alien letters and hideous murders and not-so-everyday stuff like that.  
  
That brought on another train of thought. Perhaps, he surmised, if he just dared read one more of Ken's disheartening letters, perhaps then he would have some basis for the further working-out of the riddle that his life had become. Besides, how frightening could it be with the full force of daylight streaming into his room?  
  
"Famous last words," he intoned forebodingly.  
  
He weighed both options up mentally. Either he could read the letter and thereby spend another terrified, sleepless night but also have the answers to at least a couple of questions; or he could remain blissfully unaware, if confounded. He knew how far ahead he'd gotten with the latter tactic, and it wasn't very far at all. Indeed, it was almost backwards.  
  
=#=#=#=  
  
Daisuke had just steeled himself to dig the box out from under his bed - an action he felt comparable to any deeds of heroicism that he had performed in the Digital World - when the telephone rang. It effectively shattered his resolve. He didn't know whether he should be feeling grateful or not, what with all of his effort wasted, but deep down he felt something settle: a perfectly legitimate excuse to ease his guilty, insistent conscience. When his mother mutely knocked on the door, asking if he would take the call, he let out a rush of air.  
  
Not feeling up to prodding questions and sympathetic glances, he opened his bedroom door just enough to snatch the phone and mumble a thanks. He looked at the machine cautiously.  
  
"Hello?" he asked.  
  
"Thank god! Dai, are you alright?"  
  
It took a moment for the red-haired boy to recognize Hikari's voice. She sounded terribly worried. About him? There was nothing wrong with him, Ken was the one that. "I'm okay," he muttered, realizing that his silence had stretched to improbable lengths.  
  
He heard a scoff. "Don't give me that, Motomiya! You can't rush into class, turn white as a sheet and have a breakdown; and then still pretend that nothing's wrong a few hours later!" Her aggravated tone softened immediately. "We're all worried about you. Miyako and Takeru and Taichi - everyone! We just want to help. Won't you let us try?"  
  
Help? The concept seemed strange to him. They could never understand his gaping emptiness, the nerve-snapping fear that he felt each night, his anger - his futile fury. "I don't want anybody's help! I'm handling it perfectly on my own - I'm fine!" Daisuke hardly recognized the bitter, snappish tone as his own. Why was he feeling so resentful towards his friends?  
  
"You're not-" Hikari began, her voice raised. Then, after what sounded suspiciously like a sob, she whispered, "You're not alright, Dai. Just talk to someone. We're all so scared because we're losing you and don't know what to do to make things right." She was crying now, trying to hide her emotions by putting on her trademark brave voice.  
  
"Nobody can make things right!" Daisuke yelled. Something within him had snapped. He wanted to share his fears and worries, but he wanted to share them with Ken! The others didn't know him inside out like the black-haired genius had: how was he supposed to explain everything? Where would he start "Don't you understand? You can't just fix this - he's dead, damn it! You have no idea what his life was like! You have no idea!" And then he hung up, like a sulky child who didn't want to lose an argument.  
  
All energy drained out of him and Daisuke flopped down onto his bed. That conversation had triggered an unpleasant chain of thoughts. He was being such a hypocrite: how could he lecture Kari about ignorance when he himself had just barely - and recently - scraped the surface of Ken's dark past? When he was almost too terrified to expand that knowledge?  
  
Daisuke dropped his head into his hands, feeling a slight fever across his forehead. He didn't want this problem in his life! Why could nothing go right for him? He silently cursed his life, his fate, his existence - hoping impossibly for a release from the Pandora's box that it had become.  
  
Bonelessly, he fell onto his back, glaring at the ceiling. He had never been particularly vindictive, but now he wished that he could foist his troubles onto someone else, dust off his shoulders and return to his preferred happy-go-lucky way of life. Daisuke felt like he was fighting an impossible battle; running a marathon that just got longer the further he got. Forward was the only way, and he couldn't just give up and sit himself down on the roadside, arms crossed, refusing to continue. This was his life - his life! - and he was losing it piece by piece.  
  
Daisuke closed his eyes, imagining that for a moment the world was a better place. He pictured a day some months ago. He and Ken were lying sprawled on a blanket in the park, making idle conversation. Daisuke, picking at the grass, felt a sudden bout of philosophy come on, and said, "I want to be happy."  
  
Ken glanced up with mild concern, the flower that he had been twirling between his fingers momentarily forgotten. "Hm? You've lost me, Dai. Is something wrong?"  
  
Daisuke rolled over onto his back and stretched his arms out languidly before him. "Nah, you know me: not a care in the world. I was just thinking, if someone were to ask me what I wanted to be in life, I'd say I'd want to be happy."  
  
"Aha." Ken smiled whimsically at that logic, used to Daisuke randomly blurting out comments, unaware that he had just silently skipped over several steps of thought in the process. "That's very ambitious of you."  
  
"And you?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"What do you want to be?"  
  
Ken grinned slyly. "Do you want an abstract or figurative answer?"  
  
Daisuke shrugged. "Whichever."  
  
It took the black-haired boy a long time to come up with an answer. He looked off into the distance, and said, "Unburdened." Daisuke glanced at him at his melancholy tone, but shrugged it off. Ken had strange moods sometimes.  
  
Suddenly, something didn't feel quite right to Daisuke, like a cloud that had covered the sun. He looked over at Ken again, and shot up when he saw the malicious, narrow eyed expression that had suddenly disfigured his face. The cruel stare was fixed on him. "Ken?" he asked uncertainly.  
  
The boy reached out to him, but there was no tenderness in the clenched hand. "I want to die, Daisuke," he now said, but the voice was not his - it couldn't be, not with that degree of sadistic joy. "I want to be slashed and burnt, haunted, broken. I want to smear my walls with paint," and now he was advancing on Daisuke, an unholy bliss in his eyes. Daisuke inched back, and found his back against a wall that had not been there a moment before. "I want to tear out my heart, spill my blood onto the carpets!" Before Daisuke realized it, iron hands were on his throat, squeezing, choking - "And I want to take you with me!"  
  
Daisuke clenched his eyes against the horrific vision of his gentle, kind Ken's indigo eyes burning with the fires of hate. Feebly, he tried to loosen the grip around his neck, gasping for air. But the hands only tightened, crushing his air pipe - draining the life from his young body -  
  
"Supper, Dai!"  
  
Daisuke sprang up as though a barrel of icy water had been thrown over him. It took him a moment to get his bearings in his slightly dusky room. Had he dreamt? He reached a trembling hand to his throat, finding nothing but a trail of cold sweat. The skin felt raw, though; bruised. Had he actually -  
  
"Hurry up, Davis, we're all hungry here!"  
  
Jun's irate bellow quickly cut that question short. Daisuke was relieved: he wasn't too keen on answering it. Instead, he scrambled out of bed, threw open the door to the lightened hallway and scampered into the dining room. Supper was an uncomfortable affair. Nobody was quite sure how to broach the topic of Daisuke's abysmal school day, or if the topic should even be raised. He realized that nobody was looking directly at him, just flittingly passing each other pointed looks. Daisuke just glared at his plate, pushing his food around, until finally the tension and irritation reached breaking point.  
  
"Will somebody just say something!" he exclaimed. "I'm not blind, you know."  
  
Mrs Motomiya looked down. "We just don't know what to do anymore, Dai. We've tried, but you're pushing us away. You have to tell us how we can help you."  
  
Daisuke choked at this. Hadn't Kari said exactly the same thing? He was no closer to an answer now than he had been then. He stayed quiet.  
  
Then Jun stood up, grabbing her emptied plate. "Oh, get a life, Davis! You can't spend the next forty years cooped up in that room of yours. Everyone's running out of pity pretty fast."  
  
"I don't want pity!" he yelled back, ignoring the placating gestures of his parents. "I want-" He paused. "I want to be unburdened!"  
  
Ignoring the horrified expression on his mother's face, and the sceptical one on Jun's, Daisuke charged out of the room to his only sanctuary, his bedroom. He slammed the door, flicked the light on and froze in absolute terror. He didn't move, he couldn't breathe.  
  
Something was rustling under his bed.  
  
+++  
  
Oooh, suspense! ^_^ 


End file.
